Grief
I'm sure I appear to be a very public person. I am unashamed of my personal downfalls and will gladly post it all over the internet for the universe to see. I'll tell anyone about my mood on any given day, and no one will deny that I will tell you exactly what I think about any situation.
In reality though, I'm a surprisingly private person. Through my life I have found that my raw, unfiltered emotions tend to overwhelm people, and they become uneasy around me. For some things, I enjoy making people uneasy. To me, it makes them examine their own lives and perspectives on things. If you read things I say though, I tend to have a clinical, removed way of speaking about things. I don't allow my emotions to cloud the words I say. This means that I leave a lot unsaid. Which is ok, honestly. I'm quite capable of caring for myself, especially when it comes to my emotional health.
If you saw me right now, you wouldn't recognize me. You wouldn't see the collected persona I portray, the face I show the world. You'd see a blotchy, red eyed, sobbing little girl. I hardly recognize myself. This is not the face I show the world. It is the face I don't even really let my close loved ones see. I don't even really know why I'm writing right now. I just want to bleed off some of the sad, I guess.
I don't want sympathy, and I don't want anyone to feel bad for me.
A little over a week ago my grandma died. I've told four people in the entire world, one of them being Dan and the other three I was very drunk. I couldn't bear to make it public knowledge. I really couldn't tell you why I want to write this now. I hate having my grief waved around for everyone to see, its such an intimate part of what makes me who I am.
You see, I'm sad. That's all. It's heart wrenching and I don't like it, but there it is. I am sad.
Ella Mae (Poeppel) Vogsland was an incredible woman. I grew up very far away from her, and I was a shy child, so I didn't really know her very well. She and my Grandpa (who died about 3 years ago) always sort of scared me, to be honest. They were sturdy, tough, strangers. But strangers who I loved. It's a strange situation, I think one a lot of people who grow up thousands of miles away from extended family will understand.
She raised 8 children on a farm in rural North Dakota, my father being the oldest of the bunch. I was the youngest grandchild for almost 12 years. My youngest aunt was only 16 (or something like that) when I was born. I loved playing on the farm, barefoot and dirty, crawling through the windbreak (which was a vast forest in my mind) and rollerskating in the basement. Grandpa built the house that stands there now, with the help of his teenage sons. Grandma ran the household with a warm efficiency, at least that's how it always seemed to me. Children had their place, which was almost always at the breakfast bar on tall milk cans or outside where they wouldn't bother the grown ups. Lunch was called dinner, and dinner was called supper, and everyone ate together.
My dad and his siblings compiled this cookbook of Grandma's recipes. I like to use them, but I always have to halve or quarter the ingredients. She cooked for 10, I cook for 2. It has this picture of her in it, smiling, making bread in a bowl the size of my kitchen (practically). I think its my favorite part of the cookbook honestly. Its like she's laughing up at whoever is taking the picture saying, "See how much shit I do for you people? This bowl is HUGE!" I imagine she would have had fun in my kitchen at work, laughing with us as we goof off and feed people. Food was such an integral part of life at the farm.
She had a garden bigger than my backyard, two horses, and half the basement was floor to ceiling preserves. It was like being part of a modern Little House on the Prairie, and it always fascinated me. I never allowed myself to be too curious about it though, I was afraid of breaking something, afraid they'd stop loving me if I acted out. Which, of course, wasn't true at all. But they were strangers, and I wanted them to like me so much, so I always tried my damndest to be a grandchild they wouldn't ever have to scold.
I loved it there. It might have taken me half our vacation to get comfortable, but I never wanted to leave. Hell, I still love it there. If I could live in North Dakota, I probably would. The social climate just isn't for me though, neither is the actual climate. Too cold in the winters.
I don't think I have a point to all this. I just don't want to forget. I wasn't close to her, as I'm not all that close to any of my family, but I loved her anyway. The way I feel is pretty typical for me. I don't allow myself to feel the grief that I do in fact feel because I don't feel like I'm allowed to. I'm not like my cousins, I haven't ever been close to my grandparents. I've always been a little jealous of that, because deep down one of the things I long for the most is a close knit family. I see it in the rest of them, but I don't feel part of it. I'm too shy to be. I'm too afraid they wouldn't like me. I'm too different, too worldly.
But fucking hell. I'm sad.
I don't like this part of growing up. I don't like losing people. It's inevitable, and I think she lived a really wonderful life. I'm not sad that she died. I'm not sad that she lived a full, satisfying life. That would be stupid. I'm just sad I wasn't more part of that life. Sad that I'll never get the chance to. Sad to see such a strong woman leave the lives of all those who loved her. So I don't feel sorry for her, I feel sorry for me. I feel guilty that I didn't try harder. That I didn't show her how much I admired her. I know its stupid to feel that way. There's nothing I can do about it now, and I sure did my personal best. . . But I do feel that way. I just do. No one can take that from me right now.
Right now, I don't want to be a well adjusted adult who takes care of herself. I just want to be a sad granddaughter who didn't ever say what I felt. I just want to cry and cry and cry until I don't have any more tears. I don't want the intrusive, "I'm sorry for your loss," bullshit. That's probably why I haven't told people. I don't want to feel better yet. This is my pain. I'm greedy for it. I don't want to share it or let someone else hold me while raked with sobs. I just want to feel it for a while. Because that's how grief works. It comes, it stays its time, then it passes away slowly. Sooner than later I'll let Dan into this part of my inner world. I'll allow him to soothe some of the ache. After that its only a matter of time before I tell people in the real world what's been going on. When I'm not so raw.
Until then, I want my family to know this: I'm with you on this one. This hurts. It sucks, and there's not much we can do about it for now. At least we all know we came from an amazing woman, and we're lucky to have lived in her wake. I love you all, in my own shy and private way, and I'm not distant because I don't like you. I'm distant because I'm really afraid you won't like me. But I love you anyway, and its ok that we're not close. I still love you. Just like I love Grandma and Grandpa. This chapter on our family has closed now, and I think that's ok. Hard and painful, but ok. There is so much life to be lived, and we must live our truest lives to honor the people we came from.
That's all I've got. I'm going to go cry some more.
In reality though, I'm a surprisingly private person. Through my life I have found that my raw, unfiltered emotions tend to overwhelm people, and they become uneasy around me. For some things, I enjoy making people uneasy. To me, it makes them examine their own lives and perspectives on things. If you read things I say though, I tend to have a clinical, removed way of speaking about things. I don't allow my emotions to cloud the words I say. This means that I leave a lot unsaid. Which is ok, honestly. I'm quite capable of caring for myself, especially when it comes to my emotional health.
If you saw me right now, you wouldn't recognize me. You wouldn't see the collected persona I portray, the face I show the world. You'd see a blotchy, red eyed, sobbing little girl. I hardly recognize myself. This is not the face I show the world. It is the face I don't even really let my close loved ones see. I don't even really know why I'm writing right now. I just want to bleed off some of the sad, I guess.
I don't want sympathy, and I don't want anyone to feel bad for me.
A little over a week ago my grandma died. I've told four people in the entire world, one of them being Dan and the other three I was very drunk. I couldn't bear to make it public knowledge. I really couldn't tell you why I want to write this now. I hate having my grief waved around for everyone to see, its such an intimate part of what makes me who I am.
You see, I'm sad. That's all. It's heart wrenching and I don't like it, but there it is. I am sad.
Ella Mae (Poeppel) Vogsland was an incredible woman. I grew up very far away from her, and I was a shy child, so I didn't really know her very well. She and my Grandpa (who died about 3 years ago) always sort of scared me, to be honest. They were sturdy, tough, strangers. But strangers who I loved. It's a strange situation, I think one a lot of people who grow up thousands of miles away from extended family will understand.
She raised 8 children on a farm in rural North Dakota, my father being the oldest of the bunch. I was the youngest grandchild for almost 12 years. My youngest aunt was only 16 (or something like that) when I was born. I loved playing on the farm, barefoot and dirty, crawling through the windbreak (which was a vast forest in my mind) and rollerskating in the basement. Grandpa built the house that stands there now, with the help of his teenage sons. Grandma ran the household with a warm efficiency, at least that's how it always seemed to me. Children had their place, which was almost always at the breakfast bar on tall milk cans or outside where they wouldn't bother the grown ups. Lunch was called dinner, and dinner was called supper, and everyone ate together.
My dad and his siblings compiled this cookbook of Grandma's recipes. I like to use them, but I always have to halve or quarter the ingredients. She cooked for 10, I cook for 2. It has this picture of her in it, smiling, making bread in a bowl the size of my kitchen (practically). I think its my favorite part of the cookbook honestly. Its like she's laughing up at whoever is taking the picture saying, "See how much shit I do for you people? This bowl is HUGE!" I imagine she would have had fun in my kitchen at work, laughing with us as we goof off and feed people. Food was such an integral part of life at the farm.
She had a garden bigger than my backyard, two horses, and half the basement was floor to ceiling preserves. It was like being part of a modern Little House on the Prairie, and it always fascinated me. I never allowed myself to be too curious about it though, I was afraid of breaking something, afraid they'd stop loving me if I acted out. Which, of course, wasn't true at all. But they were strangers, and I wanted them to like me so much, so I always tried my damndest to be a grandchild they wouldn't ever have to scold.
I loved it there. It might have taken me half our vacation to get comfortable, but I never wanted to leave. Hell, I still love it there. If I could live in North Dakota, I probably would. The social climate just isn't for me though, neither is the actual climate. Too cold in the winters.
I don't think I have a point to all this. I just don't want to forget. I wasn't close to her, as I'm not all that close to any of my family, but I loved her anyway. The way I feel is pretty typical for me. I don't allow myself to feel the grief that I do in fact feel because I don't feel like I'm allowed to. I'm not like my cousins, I haven't ever been close to my grandparents. I've always been a little jealous of that, because deep down one of the things I long for the most is a close knit family. I see it in the rest of them, but I don't feel part of it. I'm too shy to be. I'm too afraid they wouldn't like me. I'm too different, too worldly.
But fucking hell. I'm sad.
I don't like this part of growing up. I don't like losing people. It's inevitable, and I think she lived a really wonderful life. I'm not sad that she died. I'm not sad that she lived a full, satisfying life. That would be stupid. I'm just sad I wasn't more part of that life. Sad that I'll never get the chance to. Sad to see such a strong woman leave the lives of all those who loved her. So I don't feel sorry for her, I feel sorry for me. I feel guilty that I didn't try harder. That I didn't show her how much I admired her. I know its stupid to feel that way. There's nothing I can do about it now, and I sure did my personal best. . . But I do feel that way. I just do. No one can take that from me right now.
Right now, I don't want to be a well adjusted adult who takes care of herself. I just want to be a sad granddaughter who didn't ever say what I felt. I just want to cry and cry and cry until I don't have any more tears. I don't want the intrusive, "I'm sorry for your loss," bullshit. That's probably why I haven't told people. I don't want to feel better yet. This is my pain. I'm greedy for it. I don't want to share it or let someone else hold me while raked with sobs. I just want to feel it for a while. Because that's how grief works. It comes, it stays its time, then it passes away slowly. Sooner than later I'll let Dan into this part of my inner world. I'll allow him to soothe some of the ache. After that its only a matter of time before I tell people in the real world what's been going on. When I'm not so raw.
Until then, I want my family to know this: I'm with you on this one. This hurts. It sucks, and there's not much we can do about it for now. At least we all know we came from an amazing woman, and we're lucky to have lived in her wake. I love you all, in my own shy and private way, and I'm not distant because I don't like you. I'm distant because I'm really afraid you won't like me. But I love you anyway, and its ok that we're not close. I still love you. Just like I love Grandma and Grandpa. This chapter on our family has closed now, and I think that's ok. Hard and painful, but ok. There is so much life to be lived, and we must live our truest lives to honor the people we came from.
That's all I've got. I'm going to go cry some more.
Comments
Post a Comment